


The great game

by Melitot



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dragons, Flash Fic, Flashbacks, Gen, Imprisonment, Kilgarrah's brand of angst, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Reminiscing, Scheming, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melitot/pseuds/Melitot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The great dragon lifts his head toward the vault of his prison, to feel the wind's breath. There are fissures which let in the cave smells and light beams, mirages of the world once to his command.</i><br/>He has been confined for a long time, just a monster inside a dark cave; but what was he, before? What does he hide under armor and riddles?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The great game

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Il grande gioco](https://archiveofourown.org/works/280177) by [Melitot Proud Eye (Melitot)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melitot/pseuds/Melitot%20Proud%20Eye). 



> Translation of my own work.  
> Beta-read by [LordRandallsLady ♥](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1676388/LordRandallsLady)
> 
> A brief foreword: when I say "selfish instinct", I'm referring to the feeling of love as (some?) anthropologists call it; the expression was used in a tv documentary I saw months ago, so I don't remember who created it, when and such. Not to mention I'm too ~~lazy~~ busy to research. Sorry? But I found it a fitting way for Kilgarrah to think of affection. He's not exactly cuddle material *laughs*  
>  Point two, "Little People" refers to _fey_ creatures and puny humans, too, in his head.  
>  Three, Sareena is obviously an original character. Since we know next to nothing about Kilgarrah's life, I took some liberties.
> 
> Hope you like it!

He'd hatched from an oblong, porous egg, laid in a sandy hollow when the world was young and smelled of rain.

The first breath had been _vigour_ , the second _hunger_ : he'd eaten his own shell, spotted like a salamander, fragile like a bird bone. Then, while his brothers began to emerge and his mother – tall, enormous, black – took flight toward new generations, he had stretched his wings. The skies called.

Too soon: the first years need be spent in hiding, storing up strength. It did not matter, he had the necessary patience.

With adulthood he had at last challenged his kind and conquered a rank, a territory, the Little People's fear; unapproachable Sareena – green and lithe as a willow, unmerciful as iron – had been his, for centuries of selfish instinct. She'd given him companionship, faithfulness, nests.

(He still dreamed of her, from time to time. Ghost of a lost era.)

And she'd also given him...

She'd also given him the _Dragon Lords_.

  
_"I do not have masters."_

_"They are not masters."_ _"_

_Why should I obey, then?"_

_A snap of glaucous jaws. "You will know when you will see one."_

  
The first called himself Balinor; bittersweet heritage decided in the Old Religion's belly.

His words were strong, hipnotic like the tide. Not much time had passed before Kilgarrah, having overcome pride and anger, recognised the good intentions that guided the boy – strange biped in search of friendship – and allowed him to be part of his journeys. Every Dragon Lord was in possession of extraordinary powers: Kilgarrah had both educated and learned. While Albion's magic prospered, they had become friends.

(Looking back to those phantoms with the eyes of old age, how vulnerable they'd been! Too sure, trusting, too disgusted by intrigue.)

One day, years afterwards, they had heard about Uther Pendragon. Camelot's court had been the most beautiful and terrible stay of their travels, because there they'd found kin, respect, honour and, in the end, ruin. Balinor and his female had managed to flee; Kilgarrah had _stayed_.

The great dragon lifts his head toward the vault of his prison, to feel the wind's breath. There are fissures which let in the cave smells and light beams, mirages of the world once to his command. It's like being inside an egg that doesn't want to hatch. He lowers clear eyelids on his pupils and thinks that his forefathers were right: life ends the same way it begins - in darkness, silence, solitude.

All of a sudden, the sound of steps echoe; there's the stench of burning pitch. On the gorge's edge below, Merlin appears; Kilgarrah observes him, unseen.

He's so young and naive. He resembles the Balinor of twenty years before and, like his father, he'll grow. Time and sorrow have this effect.

_But what path will he choose?_

Spreading his wings, Kilgarrah glides toward the rock facing the entrance. For Albion, the last of the dragons will do his part in the great game of life, scheming as he once loathed to do.

 


End file.
